The Seven Days' War
by FrUKing Awesome Canadian Hero
Summary: There's a school dance next Tuesday, and with Francis and Arthur together in the back of Mr. Dinwiddy's History class, it's only a matter of time until they shag right there on the desks or something explodes and burns the school down. Or they'll end up killing each other - whichever comes first. High School AU; T for kissing, language, sexual tension, and the very essence of FrUK.
1. Day One

**A/N: In honor of my own completely crazy History class, I give you this fic. Enjoy. I suck at writing scuffles, but enjoy anyway!**

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_Day One: Monday_

Last period history class at Hetalia High School was never something easily forgotten.

With such a drastic array of students, who all mixed about as well as two toxic acids to form something highly flammable and deadly if inhaled, it was a wonder the room had not yet exploded due to the utter chaos that happened every single day, from the second one set foot inside the door. Alfred F. Jones, in the front row, drew hamburgers all over his book with completely indecent enthusiasm and did nothing but shoot spitballs at the trash can no matter what their poor teacher, Mr. Dinwiddy, did to stop him. Moving the trash can did not help, and nor did taking away his notebook or straw. It was a matter of legendary mystery to all who knew Alfred how he had ever managed to attain such an endless supply of straws from the lunch cafeteria without being arrested for robbery.

Beside Alfred sat the ever-stoic Ludwig Beilschmidt, an impossibly serious boy with obsessive-compulsive disorder who always had to have everything on his desk aligned _just so_, and who actually attempted to take notes of what Mr. Dinwiddy wrote down on the board, no matter what the chaos going on around him. He was the reason the boys behind and beside him—his brother, Gilbert Beilschmidt, and his best friend, Feliciano Vargas—were passing this class.

Beside Gilbert sat quiet Matthew Williams, so shy he was hardly ever noticed and nearly identical to Alfred. Like Ludwig, he also attempted to take notes, but was always soon distracted when Gilbert challenged him to a game of footsie across the aisle. Behind Matthew lurked the school creep, a boy called Ivan Braginski who was very tall, and made to look very puffy from the floor-length coat he always wore, and who made strange _kol_-ing noises when he was about to bash someone's face in. His sister, Naytalia, who sat next to him, was no better.

However, the real bane of this class sat in the very back two desks in the middle, as far away from the exasperated Mr. Dinwiddy as possible; their bickering was constant, to the point that even if the two were on opposite sides of the classroom they would find ways to insult each other, and it would always end in a shouting match so loud it could easily put the blast of an oncoming train to shame. Mr. Dinwiddy had long ago decided it was better just to place them next to each other so they could argue as they pleased without having to yell their foul remarks across the room, and to keep them as far away from the front of the room as possible so he wouldn't have to hear it, and had done so trying not to wonder why the two still seemed so inseparable if all they did was argue. They had to be together, or the frustration would only build. It left Mr. Dinwiddy utterly bewildered, but he had long since decided that anything the two boys did was simply far beyond his comprehension, and had let it lie at that. Francis Bonnefoy and Arthur Kirkland were just impossible to figure out, anyway.

Arthur was a short, skinny Briton with a very short temper and absolutely monstrous eyebrows, whose personality fell somewhere between gentlemanly and snappishly irritable. As Francis so gracefully put it, Arthur was like a woman with PMS on most days, who got angry at the drop of a hat and bit off the head of anyone who annoyed him in the least. It was a wonder that Francis, being at the top of the annoyance list, was still completely intact with no permanent damage or missing limbs to degrade his good looks even slightly.

Francis, very unlike Arthur, was tall, blue-eyed, and handsome, with perfectly wavy blond hair and a smooth demeanor to match. It was common knowledge that he had gone to bed with nearly every girl in the school (with the exceptions of Naytalia Braginski, Elizaveta Hedevary, who was nearly as creepy as Naytalia, and Lili Zwingli, whose brother Vash would murder Francis if he ever got anywhere close), and there were many juicy rumors of a few very special boys as well. While he was one of the most popular boys in school, Arthur was one of the biggest loners.

Today, in the back row of Mr. Dinwiddy's history class, Francis was trying valiantly to get a conversation out of Arthur.

"So, how has your day been, _cher?_" he asked, leaning closer to Arthur across the aisle, only to be smacked away none too gently.

"Terrible, and don't call me that," Arthur snapped shortly, glaring daggers at the frog as he turned back to his notes on the Seven Years' War. Francis, however, was unperturbed. He leaned back leisurely in his chair, stifling a yawn.

"Aah, sorry to hear that," he murmured. "And you are a dear—or would you rather me call you _lapin_?"

Arthur slammed his pencil down. "_Don't fucking call me anything!_" he hissed, reaching across the aisle to smack Francis again. The rather loud sound of it didn't even make anyone look up, save for Mr. Dinwiddy, who was clearly calculating the milliseconds until class would be over and these two would no longer be at risk of blowing his room to bits.

Francis smirked, carefully removing himself from Arthur's hitting range. "_Lapin_, if you hit me much harder I'm going to be all black and blue for the dance next Tuesday!"

"You'd better bloody hope I don't give you a _black eye!_" Arthur muttered, though it was completely uncharacteristic of him not to go on a rampage and start trying to punch Francis to oblivion at about this point.

For a few moments they actually sat in silence; the room seemed dead, and Alfred F. Jones actually paused in his shooting of spitballs to look back and see what was going on. But then Arthur was talking again, and everyone knew that nothing had suddenly caused a massive spontaneous combustion of the world.

"I suppose you've already got a date," he muttered, scribbling down the date of something that Francis knew he should have already learned but couldn't bring himself to feel too bothered about.

"Actually, _non_," Francis replied, almost civilly, surprising even himself. He stretched lazily, running a hand through his silky hair and hearing Arthur growl with frustration from next to him. "The girls all wait for me."

Arthur snorted something inaudible in response, disheveled hair falling into his eyes as he bent over his notes. Francis smirked, leaning over to run a hand through the Brit's hair and immediately catch his fingers on a terrible knot. Arthur snarled, jerking his head up to glare at Francis with a gaze piercing enough to melt holes in a solid brick wall, but Francis merely met it with a sigh.

"Your hair is always such a disaster," he said, deliberately running his fingers through it again, trying to tug out the enormous knot. Arthur looked ready to throttle him, making him smile even more widely. "You know, you should really let me cut it for you. Then _you_ might even be able to get a date."

Arthur growled, smacking the frog's hand out of his hair and slamming down his pencil once again. "Francis, you bloody asshole, you are _not_ one to talk," he snarled.

Francis smirked, carefully leaning back out of hitting range. "Oh? Arthur, _cher_, I think we both know how beautiful _mon _hair is, _non_?"

Arthur's glare turned feral, and immediately Francis knew he'd made a bad move.

"Really? I'm not seeing _beautiful hair_, you fucking frog. All I see is a bleached-blond rat's nest on top of your slimy amphibian head."

The entire class went dead silent as Francis gasped angrily, staring at the cruelly victorious look on Arthur's face, brilliant green eyes glinting with ferocious rage. And then Francis spoke, in a deadly quiet voice that was almost enough to make Ludwig Beilschmidt flinch.

"You're saying my hair isn't naturally blond?" he whispered, fury rising with every word. If there was one thing he would not stand for, it was jealous bitches making spiteful comments about his wonderful hair. And in this case, Arthur most certainly fell into the _bitch _category.

"Yes, I'm saying it's not naturally blond." Arthur's smug smirk radiated the evilness of the lowest possible level of villainy, taunting Francis, green eyes just daring him to make a move in retaliation.

"If you think my hair is a rat's nest, _cher_, you should really look in the mirror once in a while," Francis shot back nastily, crossing his arms. "Just look at yours—always so ugly, sticking up all over the place! Maybe you wouldn't look so terrible if you would let me _cut it_—"

"Says the fop who would gladly recruit me into the national Blokes Who Look Like Girls Foundation," Arthur snapped.

Francis was ready to explode. "Girly? _Girly?! _At least I know the meaning of the words _personal hygiene_!"

"Oh really? You call that _girly _perfumey shit you spray on yourself everyday _hygenic_? It smells disgusting!"

"At least I smell better than _you_, you _con_!"

"So a good smell is one that restricts my ability to _breathe_ properly?!" Arthur fumed, standing from the desk and glaring at Francis, positively _boiling_ with white-hot rage.

"Maybe I should wear it more often, if it would choke you to death for me," Francis growled, standing up also, itching to simply grab Arthur's throat and squeeze.

Arthur's fists clenched as Francis forced him back against the wall. "I'll bet I can kill you before your bloody perfume gets me," he snarled, before lunging at Francis and slamming him to the ground.

Arthur twisted away from the hands at his throat, grabbing Francis's neck and punching him in the ear, feeling the Frenchman reach around him to twist his arm back. The leg of a desk connected with his back, but he took no notice as Francis tried to roll over on top of him, and instead took the chance to lunge for the Frenchman's throat. His fingers connected with hot skin, and he wrapped them around Francis's neck and squeezed.

Francis threw him off, pinning him to the floor with a knee to his stomach.

"Still not choking," Arthur hissed, smacking Francis full in the face.

"Still not dead," Francis shot back, kicking Arthur in the gut again.

"Boys! _Boys!_ Control yourselves!"

Neither Francis nor Arthur took the slightest notice of Mr. Dinwiddy's pleas for order, and neither did the rest of the class. Elizaveta Hedevary and Kiku Honda were both watching the two roll together on the floor, both hiding what looked like uncontrollable smiles beneath their hands. Ludwig Beilschmidt sighed and rose from his seat, striding to the back of the classroom to try and help Mr. Dinwiddy break up the fight, but to no avail. Gilbert and Alfred were both laughing hysterically, Matthew was blushing, and Feliciano watched in confusion. Ivan was koling, smiling dangerously. Naytalia crouched in her chair like a predator ready to strike, grinning at the two boys fighting on the floor. It could be safely assumed that Mr. Dinwiddy would never regain control of the class within the last twenty minutes until the bell; notebooks, pens, and pencils were all being shoved into backpacks, and feet lifted from the floor to ensure their safety from Francis and Arthur's fury.

Francis's hands were clawing at his legs, and Arthur seized his neck once again, rolling over to sit on the Frenchman's chest as he slammed the back of his head into the floor. Francis growled, shoving Arthur down to the floor and flipping on top of him again, shoving his legs open, aiming a knee for his groin but missing when Arthur rolled over beneath him. Francis growled and grabbed him, hauling him back.

Arthur struggled to get the Frenchman off of him, from where he was pinned by the arms around his shoulders, back trapped against Francis's stomach. He retched himself from the frog's grip, almost landing a punch that would break his perfect face, but suddenly someone seized him by the shoulders and dragged him away from Francis.

Arthur growled, struggling, desperate to get revenge on that Frenchman for holding him in what he had suddenly realized had been a _very_ compromising position. No _way _was he being fucked doggie-style by Francis. No way was he _ever _being fucked by Francis.

He wanted to pound his face in.

"Francis, you bloody _bitch!_" he yelled, struggling to break free from Mr. Dinwiddy's grip on his shoulders. "I'll pound you all the way to hell!"

"In that case we'll be going together," Francis snarled from where Ludwig Beilschmidt was currently holding him back. He finally sighed, forcing himself to calm down enough to not lunge at Arthur the second Ludwig's hold on him relented, and nodded at the tall German boy to let him know he was alright again. Arthur had been dragged to the other side of the classroom, and had finally stopped fighting to break free and murder Francis, although his green eyes still flashed dangerously, simmering with anger.

The classroom was deadly silent as all eyes turned on Francis and Arthur, glaring at each other across the room, just barely holding back from putting each other in the Emergency Room. As soon as the bell rang, everyone, including Mr. Dinwiddy, rushed out of the classroom, save for Francis and Arthur.

As soon as the lights turned out, Arthur stalked up to Francis, glared at him for a moment, and smacked him across the face with all his strength. Francis straightened up, not even missing a beat, and slammed his knee into his groin.

Arthur gasped, crumpling, and Francis picked up his backpack, flipped his hair, and strode wordlessly out the door.

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**A/N: It gets _much_ better, trust me... *Wink-wink* And is anyone else getting squeal-worthy sexual tension vibes?**


	2. Day Two

**A/N: Oh, I had _way_ too much fun writing this chapter. It's a bit of a filler, but tomorrow the plot's really going to be starting up... Although quite frankly, with the way this turned out, I'm surprised they're not shagging already...**_  
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**Anyway. Enjoy! **

**Love from Maple**

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_Day Two: Tuesday_

Today, it was only a matter of time until something exploded.

The back row was absolutely _livid _with tension, all students' attention divided between the notes Mr. Dinwiddy was nervously writing on the board and Francis Bonnefoy and Arthur Kirkland, who sat in dead, absolute silence—if the notes on the French and Indian war even got a glance at all. Everyone in the class was staring back at the two of them, just waiting for one or the other to make a move. With the absolutely livid tension crackling in the air today, it was a wonder the class hadn't already descended into complete pandemonium.

Arthur's legs were crossed under the desk, green eyes glinting menacingly, razor-sharp pencil in hand and a tiny smirk on his lips.

He was ready for war.

No one even bothered to get out their notes as Mr. Dinwiddy nervously began the class, glancing back at Arthur and Francis every two seconds like they were going to leap at each other's throats at any moment—and rightfully so. A single look at Francis, in all his fucking _perfection_, was all it took to bring Arthur's flaming anger surging back. That flawlessly wavy blond hair fell so perfectly into his face, his blue eyes framed by long golden lashes, soft pink lips curling into a smirk. Arthur growled in the back of his throat, glaring straight ahead as Francis smirked at him.

"After yesterday, at least you've proved you're male," Francis hissed, smirk widening.

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"Something you have yet to prove, you fucking frog," he shot back.

Francis sighed dramatically, twirling his pen between thumb and forefinger. "Arthur, _cher_, if you really wanted to know, you could just ask any one of the girls in this school whether or not I'm a man."

Arthur snorted. "A man? You're as much a man as Katyusha, you bloody _nancy_," he snapped.

Francis growled, leaning over across the aisle. "If I'm that much of a girl, I'd hate to think what you are, _Eyebrows_," he breathed, breath hot against Arthur's ear.

Arthur stabbed him in the cheek with his pencil. "Frog!"

"_Cretin_," Francis growled.

"Wanker!"

"_Rosbif_!"

"Fuckwit!"

"_Salop_," Francis muttered, leaning across the aisle again, snatching the pencil out of Arthur's hand and smacking it down on his own desk. Arthur felt a hand creeping onto his thigh, and that was all it took.

He was on the frog in a heartbeat, grabbing his neck and slamming them both down to the floor.

"Stay the fuck _away from me_," he spat, yanking Francis's hair out of its low ponytail, just so he could see it messed up. Francis swore, shoving a knee between his legs and tackling him down, his shoulder slamming against the leg of a desk and back pressed hard against the cold tile floor. His face was flushed and hair messy, breath hot on Arthur's face.

"That would be much easier to do if you wouldn't _attack_ me," he replied evenly, finally managing to pry Arthur's hands from his throat and pinning his wrists to the floor.

"Oh, really?" Arthur snorted, struggling. "Says the arse who was just feeling me up!" He bucked his hips, trying to knock Francis from between his legs. "Just get _away_, you ugly frog!"

Francis hissed. "_Gladly_," he shot back with venom in his tone.

The entire class was staring as Francis backed off, shaking his hair out and running a hand through it as he sat back down in his seat. Arthur sat up, shaking his head, before he picked himself up from the floor and sidled back to his seat, glaring sideways at Francis. Mr. Dinwiddy watched them warily for a few moments, but when neither seemed to make any move to kill the other, with a glance over his shoulder, he cautiously went back to writing notes on the board.

Three full minutes of icy silence later, Francis and Arthur were at it again.

Everyone else watched with mild interest as the two of them spewed insults back and forth, some of the girls giggling, many of the guys placing bets under their breath over who would snap first, and Mr. Dinwiddy glancing at the clock every other second, as the class slowly but surely began its daily descent into chaos.

Again, Francis and Arthur were shooting remarks of the other's ugliness back and forth, before those shifted back to matters of manliness and sexual orientation, and then to how Francis would willingly have sex with anyone who even dropped a fleeting remark as to wanting it and how Arthur was most likely still a virgin. By the time the bell rang, both of them were seething with rage, stomping out into the hall screaming rude remarks over their shoulders until both were out of earshot.

Mr. Dinwiddy sank into his chair, letting out a long sigh of exhaustion.

Only 89 more days until the end of the school year.


	3. Day Three

**A/N: I would've had this up yesterday, but I had a shitload of homework, and by the time I got it done I barely had enough energy to shower and crash on the couch. But I have a spare moment today! So here it is!**

**And next time someone pisses me off, I'm cussing them out in French. Because saying 'fuck you' in French is just so much awesomer.**

**Without further adieu, enjoy! **

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_Day Three: Wednesday_

The bell rang just as Arthur stepped into History class today, books resting in the crook of one arm, backpack slung over the other shoulder. Today, Francis noticed, his emerald eyes sparkled ever-so-nicely with the green of his sweater, and he didn't look nearly as grumpy as usual—just extremely uncomfortable. A light blush tinged his cheeks as he felt the eyes of the class falling on him, and he walked silently to his seat, ducking his head as though he wanted to be invisible.

Francis looked him up and down for a moment, wondering suddenly if he was sick.

Arthur never, _ever _blushed like that. Furious, violently embarrassed red, perhaps—but rose-petal, schoolgirl pink? _Never._

And something was different about his hair. It was... messy. _ Good_-messy.

…Was that _styling mousse?!_

"Arthur..." Francis muttered, reaching over to run fingers through his hair. Sure enough, that was just a touch of styling mousse. "What have you done with your hair?" he asked, burying his hand in the thick blond strands in fascination.

His hand was smacked away, as Arthur let his head fall onto the desk and buried his face in his arms.

"Sod off, frog," he mumbled, sounding more depressed and humiliated than irritated. Francis sighed, leaning back in his seat.

"What happened?" he asked, watching Mr. Dinwiddy begin the lesson. The teacher glanced warily back at them, and Francis just gave him a shrug.

Arthur groaned. "Why should I tell you, you bloody git?" he asked defeatedly. Francis grinned evilly.

"Because you love me, _cher_," he teased, and Arthur slammed his head into the desk again in exasperation.

"I don't fucking love you, I _hate _you," Arthur snapped, but went on in a minute, anyway. "Lili Zwingli just asked me to the dance," he mumbled, voice growing more sheepishly quiet with every word.

Francis nodded, ears pricked up. "And...?" he prompted after a moment of silence.

Arthur groaned, shoving his face further into his arms. Francis could see his ears turning pink. "I had to turn her down."

Shocked, Francis sat up, reaching over to gently pry Arthur's blushing face from his arms and look him straight in the eyes. "What? Why, _lapin_?" His fingertips trailed over the Brit's smooth jaw as he pulled back his hand. "She's such a lovely girl."

Arthur blushed even more, glaring murderously at Francis before shifting it down to the floor. "T-there's... There's someone else I want to go with," he muttered.

Francis smiled. "Well, then why don't you just ask them to go with you?"

"They don't even like me," Arthur muttered bitterly.

"You don't know that," Francis said.

"No, I'm pretty damn sure that I do!" Arthur snapped. Francis sighed and rolled his eyes, settling back into his seat again; if Arthur was just going to mope, there was nothing he could do about it.

Gradually, a strange sort of silence settled over them—incredibly tense, anticipating, but not angry or icy, like it normally was. Arthur finally sat up, fidgeting, the furious blush slowly disappearing from his face as the two of them sat there uncomfortably. Francis watched him crossing and uncrossing his legs, scratching the back of his neck, chewing on the back of his pencil, a small smirk quirking his lips. Something inside him was immensely satisfied by Arthur's squeamish discomfort.

By the time Mr. Dinwiddy announced that they would be picking partners for a research project today, the entire class was staring at them in shock.

Why weren't they arguing?

Francis sniffed, justifying himself in the fact that this was most definitely not _not arguing—_making the other as uncomfortable as possible was the best possible comeback to any smart remark. They _were_ arguing. It was _silent _arguing.

He smirked evilly at Arthur across the aisle, feeling slightly dismayed as the Brit smirked right back, every bit as nastily.

When people around them began to get up and venture around the room in search of friends to partner with, however, Francis reluctantly ended the death glare contest, standing up, stretching, and running a hand through his hair. Arthur stood up as well, glancing around the room awkwardly. Francis smirked inwardly, ready to move toward Katyusha, one of the prettiest girls in school, who waved at him cheerfully from across the room, when he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Hey, Artie, wanna be my partner?" an American voice purred.

_Alfred?_

Francis whirled around to find Alfred F. Jones, renowned jock, looking Arthur up and down none-too-subtly, and Arthur blushing slightly, trying to edge away. With one more glance at the uncomfortable look on Arthur's face, Francis felt anger boil inside of him.

What was a jerk like _Alfred _trying to do with _Arthur?_

Francis didn't know what he thought he was achieving, but sure enough, Alfred's hand was creeping up to the uneasy Arthur's elbow. And then Alfred reached up to gently run fingers through the back of his hair.

That was just the last straw.

Francis's glare was hateful enough to melt holes in a solid concrete wall as he stalked over to Alfred and Arthur.

"I believe Arthur would like to work with someone of a decent level of intelligence, Jones," he snarled.

Alfred snorted. "Oh, would he, now?" He looked at Arthur disbelievingly, smirk on his lips.

"_Oui_, he would," Francis snapped nastily, grabbing Arthur's hand and dragging him away. For once, Arthur didn't even protest at being touched—he just hurried alongside Francis.

"Hey, why don't you just ask him?" Alfred called, trying to grab Arthur's other hand and pull him back, but Arthur growled, yanked away from both of them, and turned to smack him squarely across the face.

"_Casse-toi_," he snarled, before promptly whirling around, grabbing Francis's arm with a steel grip, and dragging him the rest of the way across the room to the two empty desks in the corner.

He shoved Francis into his seat, and flopped down across from him. Francis was staring at him in shock—a minute into the silence, a light blush began to color his cheeks, and he shuffled awkwardly in his seat.

"You spoke French, _cher_," Francis finally said in disbelief. "You just _cussed Alfred out_ in _French_."

Arthur blushed even more, smacking him. "Shut up, frog," he snapped, before getting up to grab the research worksheet from Mr. Dinwiddy.


	4. Day Four

**A/N: I would've had this chapter up last night, but I crashed before I could get it uploaded... But anyway, here it is, and I have a few warnings to go along with it.**

**Warnings for America-bashing (by France), even though I really do love Alfred to death, and there may also be possibly offensive remarks about homosexuality. I do not mean to offend anyone, and I promise, this will be the only chapter that has need of warnings at the top.**

**Anyway, please no flames? I warned you.**

**Enjoy!**

**Hugs from Maple**

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_Day Four: Thursday_

No one had the slightest clue what had happened in the hallway just before History class, and no one was brave enough to ask Francis Bonnefoy or Arthur Kirkland, who sat glaring daggers in the back row. But one thing everyone did know was that whatever it was, it was sure to end in murder.

Dead silence was absolutely stifling as it hung in the room, save for the squeaking of Mr. Dinwiddy's marker on the board, as he scribbled down the instructions for today as quickly as possible, before hurriedly scurrying away from the front of the classroom. No one wanted to be anywhere near the war zone today, and he was no exception. Removing himself from the line of fire as completely as possible, he sunk into his chair and pulled a stack of ungraded papers toward him.

The entire room seemed antsy in this silence. Gilbert Beilschmidt shuffled awkwardly, and Ludwig actually looked up from his meticulous copying-down of Mr. Dinwiddy's notes to glance uneasily over his shoulder at the back row of desks. Ivan Braginski sat totally still, smiling evilly at the air in front of him. Matthew Williams and Feliciano Vargas were shaking, looking afraid to breathe.

Everyone seemed scared to move too much. Of course, that was given, considering the flames of absolutely murderous hatred that crackled between Arthur and Francis in the very back row.

The two sat in dead silence, ignoring one another, scalding rage radiating from them with enough intensity to melt steel, like something deadly oozing from an explosive tank of radioactive material. It was utterly unnerving—the icy glances they'd steal at one another, before quickly turning away before the other caught them looking.

Both of them seemed like homicidal maniacs, sizing up their target for just the perfect moment to strike.

Given the amount of times Francis and Arthur had tried to strangle each other, rolling on the cold tile floor, the fact that today could be the day that one or the other finally finished off the job wasn't far from likely.

Everyone scooted a bit farther away in their chairs.

In the front row, just across from the trash can, Alfred F. Jones had even quit shooting spitballs in turn of fixing Francis with a glare of his own.

In comparison with Arthur, at the moment, Alfred looked like a virtuous, compassionate, and amicable human being. Francis felt the American's gaze falling on him, and turned to face him, locking their gazes with hatred so absolute it could burn holes in a solid brick wall. For almost two minutes, Alfred just stared right back, glaring daggers at Francis, and then he glanced at Arthur.

Francis's blood boiled.

His gaze flickered over Arthur as well, watching his deep green eyes dart between himself and Alfred, the way Arthur's glances to Alfred lingered ever-so-slightly, and how they always seemed to dart awkwardly away from his own eyes. Francis could've throttled that damned American slob, sitting in the front row in that arrogant, self-righteous pose of his and thinking himself worthy of _Arthur. _Any halfway-intelligent boy could tell Alfred Fucking Jones wasn't worth _half_ of him.

Francis flipped his hair out of his face haughtily, and turned pointedly back to Arthur.

The Brit seemed to have gotten out of bed three minutes before the bus came this morning, and still, frustratingly enough, he managed to look good. His jeans were rumpled, his hair even more so, and his _Clash_ T-shirt was too big, but something about him was still just _so damn exasperating._

As Arthur caught him looking, and met his gaze with unwavering ferocity, Francis realized that it must be his eyes.

Glaring straight back, Francis met his gaze without blinking, and immediately wondered how he hadn't noticed it before.

Arthur's eyes were incredibly, piercingly green—warm and golden around the edges, fading into emerald, with a deep gray-green color falling in swirls of shadow around his pupil. Francis felt his anger slowly ebbing away, drowned in his fascination with those stormy-sea eyes.

And then Arthur blinked, and the sound of his voice was all it took to bring Francis's rage surging back.

"Why the great bloody _fuck_ are you staring into my eyes, frog?" Arthur snapped.

Francis sneered. "I just now noticed you had them, underneath those horrendous eyebrows," he hissed in reply. Arthur growled.

"Says the bloody fucking poof with the bleached-blond hair and colored contacts who spends hours plucking his eyebrows every night!"

Francis smirked nastily, leaning over to breathe against Arthur's ear, "I wouldn't be talking about gayness if I were you—I think we both know how sexy you would look in a miniskirt."

Arthur's eyes shot open wide, his mouth opening and closing a few times, face growing redder and redder as Francis pulled slowly away. After a full minute of speechless rage on his part, Arthur finally took a deep breath, fixed the frog with a glare more than hateful enough to cause instant death, and reached down to pull out his copy of the class's 500-page History book from beneath his chair. Francis was no longer smirking in triumph.

"You have two seconds to get your bloody fucking arse out of that chair and _run_," he murmured in a low tone that was far more scary than any screaming rage he could've gone into.

With twenty minutes to the bell, Francis leapt up and scrambled away.

Arthur took another deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, tightened his grip on the book, and finally jumped to his feet, _screaming_ a war cry at the top of his lungs and flying after Francis.

All other classes in the building lurched to a halt as the chaos erupted in Mr. Dinwiddy's room.

Students were yelling, jumping to their feet to crowd toward the edges of the classroom and attempt to get out the door. Arthur was screaming bloody murder, Francis was terrified, and the two of them were careening around the room like an insane pinball machine, knocking over desks and shelves and stepping on other students on their mad rampage to kill.

Mr. Dinwiddy sighed and let his head fall onto his desk in defeat.

This just kept getting worse and worse.

Alfred leapt from his corner behind a file cabinet in the back of the room to try and tackle Francis down, but when he managed to pin the Frenchman beneath him and lean aside so Arthur could have a clear shot with the book, Arthur glared at him for a moment before slamming him aside with it and then aiming at Francis's head. Francis yelped, barely managing to roll out of the way before the book smashed into the floor, before he was up and on his feet again, leaving Alfred to scramble out from beneath Arthur's feet.

All other classes listened apprehensively, with a horrified sort of interest, some beginning to wonder hopefully if Francis would make it until the bell and manage to escape with his skull intact.

But three minutes 'til, the inevitable happened.

Everyone winced at the sickening _thud_ of Arthur's History book hitting home.


	5. Day Five

**A/N: Woohoo! My doc manager is full once again, and I have finally managed to get this chappie written decently enough to be worthy of all of you wonderful reviewers! This one turned out much fluffier than I had planned, but I still think you'll get a few laughs, and please don't kill me for the ending. I promise, tomorrow will be hysterically funny! **

**All I have to say about this one is _poor Alfred._ Seriously, I'm beginning to feel a bit bad for the guy...**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

**Love from Maple**

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_Day Five: Friday_

It was suspicious, to say the least, when Francis and Arthur walked into American History class side by side, a full minute before the bell would ring, with neither of them showing any homicidal tendencies for the very first time that week.

Mr. Dinwiddy looked up from his work, eying the two boys warily, nearly jumping in surprise when both of them got past his desk, to his astonishment, without even the most innocently murderous of death glares. As the two of them flopped down in their seats, slinging their backpacks over the backs of their chairs without a single angry word to each other, he stared at them even more suspiciously.

Who were they, and what had they done with his students?

After the spontaneous combustion of yesterday's miniature nuclear bomb, he'd expected a hail of outbursts, or at least a snappish swear word exchange.

He sighed and shook his head, turning away again in resignation. He had long ago accepted the fact that he would never even begin to understand those two. At least after this year, the high school would no longer be cursed with the chaos of their presence, and he may be able to teach next year's history class without fearing for his life.

But despite his resolution to simply stay away from Francis and Arthur as much as possible for the remaining 86 days until he would never have to deal with the sight of their faces again, from the corner of his eye he watched them intently. With the atmosphere the two of them already had going, it was only a matter of time until they were at it in earnest. It was on the deadly-silent, explosion-imminent days like today that he wondered whether he should be worried for the safety of all within a hundred-mile radius of his classroom.

Arthur was still royally pissed about yesterday. If Francis thought he was some sort of personal whore to be toyed with through untrue, disgusting, and completely perverted comments, then he was badly mistaken! Arthur muttered something under his breath and glared down at his razor-sharp pencil, twirling it between his fingers. It did not help matters that somehow that stupid damn frog had managed to take a concussive slam to the head without even getting a nasty bump under that pretty blond hair of his.

If anything, he looked better than usual, with his button-down collar partially undone and hair ruffled _just fucking right. _He may as well have glowed.

Arthur itched to strangle him.

Francis, meanwhile, sat quietly fuming not at Arthur, but Alfred. He was _not_ going to let that American moron get his hands on Arthur. As much as he loathed being forced into a truce with the Brit, it seemed the only way to keep Alfred at a spitball- and hamburger-free distance. And of course, he was also mad at Arthur; after all, if he had just stuck to his T-shirts rather than that fitted green sweater...

But in the back of his mind, Francis smirked. He had a plan of nasty defenses set up, and nothing was going to get in his way.

Who did Alfred think he was, anyway?

The second the cocky American took his seat, Francis's smirk made its way onto his lips as Alfred turned to him with a searing death glare. His smirk grew even wider, and he quirked a perfectly-shaped eyebrow, inclining his head toward Arthur.

The second Alfred's gaze shifted, Francis grinned.

Direct hit.

Alfred almost visibly blanched under Arthur's immediate gaze of absolute hatred, and a second later both of them were glaring at Francis angrily. Francis glanced at Alfred, and then Arthur, and then the work assignment on the board—_work with a partner on research._

Another glance from Alfred, to Arthur, and Francis subtly gestured between himself and the Brit, eyebrow raised questioningly.

Arthur looked from him to the enraged Alfred, and then back to him, and finally gave an angry sigh and a grudging nod. Francis felt his smirk become a grin, and on a random whim he blew a kiss across the aisle to Arthur. Alfred looked ready to explode; Arthur scowled, but there was no mistaking the blush that crept up his cheeks.

Francis smiled to see that he was doodling miniscule hearts in a corner of his notebook.

He would be commenting on that later.

Meanwhile, he was in no hurry to dismiss the satisfaction of Alfred's defeat. The American sat in the front row, glaring at him furiously enough to make the floor open and swallow him to the depths of hell. Somehow, it was almost comical; such rage didn't suit his normally smiling face at all. Francis smirked, shaking his head, and watched gleefully as the rage only grew. Alfred cracked his knuckles menacingly, but somehow he didn't feel too threatened. Compared to Arthur's rabid-dog rages, Alfred would be a tiny puppy. He sighed, settling back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head with a nonchalant yawn.

He certainly had good methods of making himself enemies, didn't he?

The class was unnaturally quiet as Mr. Dinwiddy scrambled to give the directions for today, and Francis almost shook his head to see the disoriented glances the teacher was throwing back to his and Arthur's corner of the classroom. The entire rest of the class was watching them half-suspiciously, and half in amusement, and Francis almost laughed when he caught the wink Gil shot in his direction, and the grin from Toni. He smirked back, before turning away again. His friends were beginning to catch on.

As soon as Mr. Dinwiddy had turned them loose to work, Francis rose from his seat to appear at Arthur's side, leaning on his desk lazily.

"_So_," he smirked. "Has your mysterious Romeo come to sweep you off your feet?

Arthur groaned, rolling his eyes. "Bloody frog, I hoped you'd just leave me alone," he muttered.

Francis looked mildly horrified. "At the mercy of Alfred? Please, _cher_, not even I could be that cruel."

"Obviously,"Arthur muttered.

Smirk returning to his face, Francis sat down on Arthur's desk, facing him and tugging at his collar to bring him closer. "_Has_ your Romeo asked you to the dance?"

Arthur glared daggers at him, smacking away the hand on his neck. "Who says they're a Romeo?" he hissed, blush creeping up his cheeks as he bent down to grab the History book that had smashed Francis's head against the floor just yesterday, their research worksheet still tucked inside.

"Oh, just a guess," Francis said mildly, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender, and slipping off the desk. "Seeing as you always call them 'they', I assumed you didn't want it getting out that you liked another boy."

Arthur growled, face pink, as he watched Francis drag over another desk to sit down across from him. "Shut up, you stupid frog," he muttered.

Francis smiled, chuckling. "I'd much rather be helping you get that worksheet done," he murmured.

Arthur looked up in surprise, unamused. "I highly doubt it," he deadpanned.

"All evidence to the contrary," Francis said, holding out a hand for the worksheet.

"What benefit does it have for you?"

Arthur was still skeptical, and Francis rolled his eyes. "A good grade," he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Arthur glared. "So now you're insulting my intelligence?"

"_Non_, your handwriting. It's atrocious. If I write, at least our answers will be legible."

Arthur watched Francis blow his hair out of his face, still holding out a hand for the worksheet, and finally handed it over.

"As if your ugly frenchie writing is any better," he muttered under his breath.

"I heard that!" Francis laughed.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head, and began skimming the book for the next answer with an almost comical concentration. But Francis could tell he wasn't really reading; his gaze simply rested on a single word here and there, and a tiny smirk crept onto Francis's lips. Was he really so distracting? He was flattered.

Just to put the icing on the cake, he slipped down a little in his chair, until their knees were resting against each other beneath the desks.

A moment later, Arthur let out a frustrated sigh and looked up.

"Just from curiosity, why _did_ you save me from Alfred?" he asked, after a moment of halfhearted glaring at Francis.

The question almost caught him off guard, and he raised an eyebrow. "I don't want you raped, _mon cher_," he said truthfully.

Arthur snorted. "No, you'd much rather be the one to do that, wouldn't you?"

Francis grinned, nudging his knee gently under the desk. "_Bien sûr, belle_," he smiled.

Arthur kicked him. "Oh, bugger off, you bloody frog," he said, but there was a smile in his voice. "Number eight is George Washington."

Francis scrawled the name in the swirly writing Arthur had always mocked him for, and returned to nudging him under the desk, taking delight in the slightest hint of a blush that began to color his cheeks. The rest of the class went this way; the two of them actually managed to refrain from anything more than mild bickering, and Francis gazed around the room whenever Arthur didn't have anything for him to write, taking in the reactions of the others with amusement.

Elizaveta Hedevary had her camera out and was madly snapping pictures of them; after Francis realized it, he shot her a wink, making her squeak like a mouse being strangled, and began leaning in closer to Arthur to hear the answers, nudging him more under the desk—even slipping their ankles together to entwine them and feeling a giddy surge of victory when the Brit didn't kick him or even try to pull away. He had to admit to himself that for some strange reason, he loved the slightly-uncomfortable blush on Arthur's face. He was already certain of one thing:

He would definitely be buying some of those pictures from her later.

Meanwhile, Alfred sat fuming at them on the other side of the classroom, and Francis just shot him a grin, feeling absolutely, evilly pleased with himself. He slowly reached over to touch Arthur's hand, lying on the desk, and began gently rubbing circles into the back of it—he could practically feel Arthur jump in surprise, and when he carefully laced their fingers together, Arthur moved a little uncomfortably, but didn't pull away. After a moment, he relaxed slightly and Francis felt his soft, cool fingers closing around his hand as well, and a tiny smile crept onto his lips.

Why was he sitting here, _flirting_ with his worst enemy, holding his hand, and doing absolutely everything in his power to make a certain American jealous as all hell? Most of all, why wasn't he disgusted with himself for doing it?

He blamed his heartbeat on the fact that he was most likely going to get his face bashed in by the aforementioned American after school today, and gave Arthur's hand a soft squeeze.

Alfred looked murderous.

Arthur's green eyes meeting his was more than worth it.

When the bell rang, and everyone began yelling and talking, crowding out of the classroom, and Francis watched as Arthur slung his backpack over his shoulder. He smiled, grabbing his own, and sidling up beside him.

"I hope Romeo asks you to the dance," he murmured in Arthur's ear, catching his hand another time and giving it a tiny squeeze. Arthur cursed himself for blushing, looking away.

"Whatever, frog," he shot back, trying awkwardly to move away from Francis, but the frog was letting his hand creep over the small of Arthur's back.

"_Non_, I really do," he said with an honest smile, and Arthur was just about to smile tentatively back, when suddenly Francis leaned down to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

Arthur froze.

Holy shit. It should be fucking_ illegal _to have lips that soft.

The gloating wolf-whistles of Antonio and Gilbert reached his ears as Francis pulled away, not smirking, but truly smiling, hand gently sliding over his back before pulling away.

"See you Monday," he smiled.

Arthur finally managed snapped out of his dumbfounded silence, a furiously humiliated blush flooding his cheeks, and smacked Francis full across the face.

"F-fuck you," he stammered, wishing he could just die on the spot, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat as he raced off down the hall. He was _not fighting tears, dammit!_

Romeo would never ask him, because Romeo was too busy toying with him.

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**A/N: Alright... to lighten that up a bit, cookies and hugs to anyone who can pick out the historical reference in Mr. Dinwiddy's name? :3 I've been waiting for someone to catch it, but no one has. Mind you, it is misspelled, but I would think if you said it out loud you'd be able to catch it...**


	6. Day Six

**A/N: So, I figured it was about time you lovely people got another chapter, and I didn't have any homework last night, so I just sat down and wrote this. Tomorrow's chapter is the one I've been looking forward to, although this one took a rather unexpected turn... anyone up for almost-sex in the back row?**

**And cookies to everyone who got the reference; Robert Dinwiddie was the of the Virginian governor who pretty much started the Seven Years' War in the first place.**

**I'm beginning to wonder if I should change this fic's rating to M...**

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_Day Six: Monday_

Damn, if Francis didn't notice him today.

The second Arthur set foot inside Mr. Dinwiddy's History classroom on Monday, Francis found himself just barely managing to keep from staring.

What had he _done _over the weekend?

Arthur's messy hair was more untamed than ever—and undeniably, lawlessly _sexy_, falling into his eyes in perfectly spiky clumps and rumpled in the back. As Francis watched, he brushed his bangs from his face, adjusting his grip on the books that rested carefully in the crook of his arm. His sweater was green again, fitted and flawless, hugging his body down to his slim hips, that swayed alluringly when he walked.

As Arthur passed his desk in the front row, Francis caught a glimpse of Alfred licking his lips and shifting in his seat. He growled under his breath.

Arthur didn't meet Francis's gaze as he sat down, instead glancing awkwardly down at the floor, before turning away to shove his books beneath his chair and throw his backpack over the back of it. Francis watched him, smirking slightly, taking in his slight curves and angles and the absolute _perfection _of that hair.

Once he'd dug out his notebook and pen—Francis noticed with dismay that the corner with the hearts had been torn away—and set them on his desk, Arthur could no longer convince himself of any excuse to pretend he didn't feel that damn frog's eyes on him. He looked up, nearly jumping when his gaze immediately locked with those deep blue eyes, attempting to raise an eyebrow in annoyance.

"What are you staring at this time, frog?" he demanded irritably, blowing his hair from his eyes. Francis smiled, shaking his head, and Arthur nearly found himself melting beneath that _look_, as Francis searched his face.

"You," he murmured.

Arthur's heart did _not _leap into his throat.

A second of silence later, he shifted awkwardly in his seat. "What, trying to figure out the quickest way to rape me?" he snorted, only half-joking.

Francis's smile quickly became a mischievous grin. "_Certainement_," he shot back with a wink.

Alfred, alone in the front row, looked murderous.

Arthur, on the other hand, found himself laughing in spite of himself, smacking away the hand that made a teasing dive for his fly. He couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips, hearing Francis's smooth, bubbling laugh from the seat beside him as he watched the Frenchman flip his hair from his face, clearing brilliant blue eyes.

Arthur's smile faded to a scowl in a moment, though, gaze darting to those lips and then the ground.

What would those lips feel like, a second time?

He turned away.

Francis watched him, smirking, leaning across the aisle to sneak a hand onto his thigh and immediately feeling Arthur stiffen. "You probably should not have worn that sweater today," he murmured, rubbing his thumb in a slow circle but not moving upward, slightly confused when Arthur didn't even begin to relax. He slid down to his knee. Arthur stayed stiff as a board. "Alfred might not be able to keep hands off you," he finished softly, smiling mischievously.

Arthur tensed even more, steadfastly glaring away from him. Francis felt worry beginning to take root in his stomach, leaning forward even more, trying to catch Arthur's gaze and only succeeding in pushing it farther away.

"Arthur?" he murmured, looking into his face, unable to capture his brilliant green eyes. "What's wrong, _belle_?"

Arthur tried to turn away in his seat, but Francis took his face in his hands before he could stop himself, pulling him gently back, bringing their gazes to meet. "I mean it," he whispered softly. "You look amazing."

They were so close—breaths mingling, noses nearly brushing, and Arthur could feel the warmth of Francis's hands brushing softly along his jaw and the softest tickle of his hair. Teasing him. Daring him to make a move.

He slammed his eyes shut, yanking away. "Shut up, frog," he hissed, pushing Francis away. And dammit, he did _not _feel the least bit bad about it.

Francis slid back into his seat, slightly hurt, watching Arthur for a moment. He sighed and moved back over to him in a minute, receiving a death glare that didn't quite seem genuine in return.

"What will it take to convince you that I'm not lying?" he whispered. A playful smile spread across his face. Arthur swore to himself under his breath when that warm, long-fingered hand replaced itself teasingly on his thigh. "Do I have to grope you?"

He fought not to give Francis a response, instead forcing himself to keep his eyes locked on Mr. Dinwiddy, who stood in front of the class, going over material and lecturing on them appropriate test behavior. _Shit—_that was today, wasn't it? He hadn't even studied...

Long, slender fingers gave his thigh a squeeze, creeping upward, rubbing his skin through his jeans in slow, torturous circles. Francis's hand was _warm_. It slipped upward even more, stealthily, dipping toward the inside of his thigh, pressing softly into the gentle concave beside his crotch.

He should be pushing that hand away.

As it was, he fought to keep himself from opening his legs.

More warm, slow, teasing circles were gently rubbed into his skin through his jeans, each one beginning to send a little rush downward and making him struggle to stay focused on Mr. Dinwiddy. A brief, filthy flash of what they could do sent a hot surge through him, and Arthur bit the inside of his lip nervously, feeling the dangerous beginnings of tightening heat starting to curl downward.

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit. _This was _Francis. _If he ended up with a hard-on, and the frog noticed, he'd willingly throw himself off a cliff to avoid the humiliation.

Warm, sly hands, rubbing closer and closer, Francis's blond hair falling into his face as he watched Arthur's face intently, memorizing the dusty pink blush that glowed in his cheeks and the way he bit his lip, glaring determinedly at Mr. Dinwiddy. He smirked, licking his lips subtly and knowing Arthur caught it from the tiniest darkening of his face, and the distracted twitch of his eyes.

Arthur was going to kill him for this.

Francis's hand finally slid slyly over his crotch, giving him a warm, sudden squeeze and making his breath hitch in his throat. He cursed, sitting stiff, forcing his legs together when suddenly all he wanted was to grab Francis, smash their mouths together, and feel the way the Frenchman slammed their hips together and throw his legs around his waist and let Francis make him scream his name to the ceiling. Shit. _Shit._ More tightening, more heat... he just wanted to let his head fall back and eyes slide shut.

Francis made a soft noise of unmistakable pleasure, slowly moving his hand away from Arthur's crotch, and the Brit forced back a moan at the sound. Damn. Shit. Fuck. _Fuck..._

But the moment that Francis's hand had slid down to squeeze his ass, and just as Arthur was struggling to keep his hips from bucking, he managed to yank himself back to his senses.

"Fuck off, you idiot," he snarled, grabbing Francis's wrist and throwing off his hand. "Go rape someone else!"

Francis withdrew, though a smirk quirked his lips as he brushed his hair from his face. "It isn't rape if you enjoy it, _cher_," he whispered, and Arthur growled.

"Enjoy? That was one of the worst experiences of my life," he snapped.

Francis grinned. "Not from my observations, _lapin—_or is there something you want to tell me?"

Arthur groaned and slapped his hands over his ears. "Shut your face, you bloody arse!"

"I've noticed you're no longer calling me a _poof_," Francis observed mildly.

Arthur's glare was beyond that of instant death. "And?"

"It confirms that I am correct in assuming your mysterious love interest is another boy, _oui_?" Francis asked, looking at Arthur thoughtfully.

Arthur groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Don't even bring them into this," he muttered. "And what does it matter to you, anyway?"

Francis smiled. "_Cher_, you just narrowed down the amount of possibilities by half for me." He gazed at Arthur thoughtfully again, bringing a pale blush to tint the Brit's face.

"So now you're playing matchmaker?" he muttered.

"Something like that," Francis murmured back.

"And why are you doing this, exactly?"

"I hate to see you so depressed, _petit lapin_," he shrugged, and a tiny, playful smirk crept onto his lips. "You're no fun to argue with like this."

Arthur rolled his eyes, fighting a smile that made its way onto his lips, but also feeling his stomach clench painfully. "Of course you would," he muttered. "Always thinking about yourself."

Francis grinned. "_Non_, about _tu_," he murmured back.

The room fell oddly silent as the two of them turned to start on the tests that had been passed back to their desks during their exploits, and for most of the class, the classroom held an eerie sort of silence, broken only by the scribblings of pencils and the occasional quiet swear from one desk or another when someone didn't know an answer. Arthur threw down the answers, making up things for the questions he didn't know, flying through the test without a thought to his grade. The moment he finished, he glanced up, and immediately was caught in the blue gaze he'd felt on him since the test had begun.

Francis smiled. Arthur watched.

His blond waves fell free today, soft and thick, and he brushed them from his face with long, lazy fingers, sending a tiny shock of heat through Arthur at the memory of where they'd been only minutes before. Flawless lips and smooth white teeth, a long, sloping nose and brilliant blue eyes.

Francis was absolutely perfect.

As soon as the bell rang, and Arthur climbed to his feet, he felt Francis's warmth close behind him and turned quickly around, to find the Frenchman a bit closer than he'd like. He didn't back away. An unreadable, warm look shone deep behind those blue eyes, and even as Arthur tried to stomp it out, a tiny flame of hope flickered.

Francis took his hand and gave it a tiny squeeze, smiling and leaning in to gently whisper in his ear.

"I hope Romeo asks you," he breathed. Arthur's heart nearly cracked, then and there. "It would be a shame for a beauty like you to go to the dance alone."

So that was all he was to Francis.

Another pretty face.

At first, he wanted to cry, but in a moment, all his frustration and hurt and heartbreak turned to pure fury. Arthur stared at the ground, anger frothing up inside of him.

Tomorrow, he'd show Francis.

He'd show him what the fuck he was missing.


	7. Day Seven

**A/N: Well. I promised a couple of days ago that there would be no more warnings for this story. I sincerely hope I've learned my lesson about promising things like that, lol. **

**BEFORE WE BEGIN: Tomorrow, to start the new year, I'm going to be changing my pen name to _The FrUKing Awesome Canadian Hero _(lol, long enough? I know, I know...) or something very similar. I just figured I should warn you all, so it doesn't cause any more confusion than is absolutely necessary.**

**Okay. Warnings.**

**First off: Mr. Dinwiddy has officially lost every bit of historical accuracy he ever had. For some reason he morphed from a lame-ish teacher too scared to intervene with FrUK to an absolutely sexy brown-haired guy with a slight tendency toward crossdressing and the theme song 'Too Cool' from Camp Rock. I blame the shuffle button on my iPod. **

**Next: USUKers, there is an insult straight from Tumblr in this that I just found too hilarious to leave out. I've actually been on an Alfred-crazed streak as of late, so I assure you, I do not view him in the same light as Elizaveta and her frying pan.**

**And finally: You will see I have bumped the rating, and you know me; an M rating pretty much speaks for itself. I hope the smut lives up to your expectations, because I am a fucking piece of shit when it comes to angry sex. ASDJUKSHBJFL IT JUST DOESN'T WORK. BLARRRG. It felt like a crime to leave out smut after all the time I spent building toward it, but when I read it over it's just... blah. Anyway. I hope you like it better than I do, because to me it's just monotonous and extremely generic. I guess I'm out of practice.**

**Oh, and also, there's an extreme overuse of the word _fuck_ in this chapter. I really, honestly haven't the slightest idea how it turned out that way.**

**Anyway, I'm going to shut up with this monstrosity of an A/N and let you all read! I hope this last chapter lives up to your expectations, lol.**

* * *

"Stay the fuck away from me!"

Arthur slammed his elbow into Francis's side, sending the frog stumbling into the doorframe with a yelp. He scowled, shoving himself upright and glaring at Arthur's retreating back as the Brit stalked to the back row and threw himself into his seat in a huff. Francis hated to admit it, but he was having an issue with not staring at Arthur's ass, with the way his hips swayed tauntingly when he walked, and the display put on by those fucking _tight_ ripped-up skinny jeans.

It had been months since the last time he'd dressed like this for school—and whenever he did, it was a warning signal for everyone to stay as far away as possible. But _fuck_, did he look hot. His hair was mussed into his face, exposing piercings Francis had nearly forgotten were there; he'd replaced his glittering eyebrow bar, his baggy Union Jack jacket, and the rebellious attitude that seemed to have been missing for so long.

The sheer sexiness of it was driving Francis mad.

Arthur caught him staring and shot him a murderous glare, with those _piercing green eyes_—Francis could swear he was wearing eyeliner—

He snapped himself out of it and glowered right back.

In a moment, though, Francis realized he was still standing in the doorway, and with a glance around at the curious, amused faces of the class, he sighed angrily and followed Arthur, slamming his own books down and flopping into his own chair.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong, or not?" he demanded, leaning over to Arthur's desk. The Brit hissed and turned away.

"I told you to get away and stay there, you fucking frog," he snapped.

That was the final straw. Francis stood, slamming his hands down on Arthur's desk and leaning down until he could feel the angry huffs of the Brit's breath on his face.

"_Tell me what is wrong_," he murmured ominously.

Arthur glared. "You're in my face—that's what's wrong," he shot back, shoving Francis away; he scoffed, straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest.

"There—I'm not in your face," he hissed, gritting his teeth. "Now tell me what's wrong."

Arthur growled, running a hand through his hair in exasperation, glaring up at Francis. "What the hell does it take to get it inside your head that _it's none of your fucking business?_" he demanded.

Francis glared right back, daring him to make a move. "Tell me, Arthur," he snapped. "Something happened yesterday."

Arthur blushed angrily, glaring down at the floor as Francis sat pointedly on his desk. "Fine. Yes, as a matter of fact, it did. Now will you just shut your ugly face and _leave me the hell alone?_"

Francis swore the venom in his cockney accent wavered, weakening for only a second before snapping back into icy hatred. He leaned down again, forcing green eyes to meet his own, so close their lips nearly brushed, noses colliding and breaths heavy and furious.

"Tell me."

Arthur huffed, shoving Francis roughly away. "Alright, I got a date." He leaned away as far as he could, crossing his arms angrily and glaring defiantly up at him. Because dammit, that frog didn't deserve him.

"Who?" Francis demanded, leaning in close again with a glare that could melt holes in steel.

Arthur scoffed. "You think I'd tell you?" He laughed bitterly. "You'd bash his face in."

"Maybe I would," Francis snapped. His hand was creeping down to Arthur's stomach, thumb rubbing hot circles through his shirt—

"So from now on, I'd appreciate it if you'd _keep your hands off me!_" Arthur hissed, wrenching his hand away and smacking Francis full across the face. The frog winced, jerking away and clapping a hand over the flaming red mark on his cheek, before fixing Arthur with another glare.

"_Boys!_"

The sharp rebuke made both of them jump, to see Mr. Dinwiddy glaring at them from the board, marker hovering mid-letter. Both of them shrank back slightly; he did _not _look happy. And this was _Mr. Dinwiddy_—the most laid-back teacher in the entire building.

The shock of his reaction was almost enough to get the two of them to stop bickering for a moment.

Francis and Arthur looked at each other. Arthur glared.

_Almost._

But just as Francis was turning back to the sexy, messy-haired punk seated ever-so-conveniently lower than himself, Mr. Dinwiddy cleared his throat.

"Mr. Bonnefoy."

Francis nearly jumped, snapping back to attention.

Mr. Dinwiddy crossed his arms, sighing and leaning back against the whiteboard. "I believe you are aware of the fact that you should not be sitting on Mr. Kirkland's desk."

Slowly, exchanging a glance with a Brit who suddenly appeared just as astonished as he was, he slid off the desk, slinking cautiously across the aisle and back to his own chair. The second Mr. Dinwiddy gave him a nod and his suspicious gaze shifted to Arthur, Francis expected the Brit to flinch, or at least jump, but he just sat, glaring somewhat insolently back.

The image of that glare, from those piercing green eyes, under different circumstances made Francis a bit hot, just thinking about it.

"Mr. Kirkland—and I think the class would agree with me, also—that your mouth needs a bit of cleaning."

Francis smirked; Arthur glowered; Mr. Dinwiddy watched with surprisingly relaxed resolve. Francis could swear he caught the ghost of a smirk on the teacher's lips.

Mr. Dinwiddy met Arthur's glare with a calm and somewhat smug smile for nearly a full minute, and when the Brit didn't open his mouth, nodded approvingly and turned back to the board. Only then did Francis notice the _completely intentional_ sway of their teacher's hips, and he blanched as sure enough, Mr. Robert Dinwiddy, teacher of the infamous last-period History class at Hetalia High School, ran his fingers through longish brown hair to get it out of his face. The realization hit him like a brick to the face.

Was_ every_ male in this _room _gay?

Francis sunk into his chair and let his forehead fall to meet the cool surface of the desk.

He may be permanently traumatized from this.

For a few tense moments, the squeaking of Mr. Dinwiddy's marker was all that could be heard in the slightly dumbfounded absence of Francis and Arthur's bickering, and then the teacher turned, ghost of a smirk never leaving his face, to face the class.

Elizaveta sat stifling her giggles, watching their teacher flick his hair out of his face, whispering something to Katyusha and making the other girl's eyes shoot open wide for a moment before she burst into a fit of giggles as well, hiding her mouth behind her hand. Gilbert and Antonio were collapsed on their desks, shaking with silent laughter, and both glanced back at Francis with looks saying something along the lines of '_mein Gott, how did The Awesome Me not notice that before?_'

Alfred had blanched, twisting in his seat to exchange glances with Arthur, and with the Brit's roll of his eyes, a nauseous feeling took root in the pit of Francis's stomach.

_No._

Arthur would _not _sink that low.

But the way those two were looking at each other...

And the second Mr. Dinwiddy called for them to split off for the last day of partner work on the unit, Arthur rose from his seat and strolled over to the American, taking the desk across from him and completely ignoring the lecherous, revolting, infuriating smirk that Alfred shot back at Francis.

Francis's stomach had imploded with complete and utter _rage_.

There was no. Way. In _hell_.

Alfred reached over to take Arthur's hand beneath the desks, and when Arthur didn't jump away and instead entwined their fingers, Francis was torn between rampaging to the front of the classroom to bash Alfred's fucking ugly lump of a face to a bloody pulp, or smashing his own head on the conveniently-placed steel of Mr. Dinwiddy's filing cabinet.

Forcing himself not to show any reaction whatsoever, Francis tried to think for a second, and finally just groaned and ran a hand through his hair. What the fuck. What the motherfucking fuck. What the bloody motherfucking _fuck?!_

He was starting to sound like Arthur.

An elbow plopping down on his desk made him look up, to see Elizaveta Hedevary smirking down at him, before sighing and shaking her head.

"You're an idiot," she stated bluntly. Francis glared.

"About to murder another one," he hissed through clenched teeth, glowering at Alfred and Arthur in the front row, closer now, talking quietly. He. Would. Fucking. _Murder_ him.

Elizaveta sighed and tutted, grabbing his elbow, yanking him to his feet with a yelp of surprise, and dragging him across the classroom to her desk.

"Sit," she ordered dangerously, stabbing a finger at the chair. Francis sat.

"Think, Francis. Is there really much use in killing Alfred?" she asked, pacing in circles around him.

Francis snorted, trying to crack his knuckles, and cursing himself even further when he could barely hold back a wince. He could just hear Arthur's laughter, ringing in his ears. "_Oui_, there is," he snapped. "Dead, he's out of the picture."

Elizaveta sighed. "Fanny—"

Francis gave her a murderous glare.

She glared right back. "Fuck off," she threatened, lifting her frying pan menacingly. "It's what Gilbert calls you."

"What was that about The Awesome Me?"

A head of messy silver hair popped over the side of Francis's desk, and he smacked a hand to his forehead with a groan of defeat.

Elizaveta sighed and rolled her eyes, hefting her frying pan nonchalantly over one shoulder. "You call Francis 'Fanny', don't you?"

Gil looked confused. "_...Ja_," he muttered, and Elizaveta nodded approvingly.

"Good," she said, lowering the frying pan again.

A second later, a cheery Spanish voice called from a few desks over.

"_Uno momento_! Wait for me!"—and Antonio was scrambling over.

"What're we talking about?" he asked brightly, leaning down to rest his arms on the desk and letting his chin fall into the palm of one hand, green eyes alight. Francis and Gil both opened their mouths, but Elizaveta beat them to it.

"Why Francis shouldn't kill Alfred," she answered, glaring down at Francis accusingly.

He groaned. "Can't I just saw off his head and be done with it?" he demanded. Antonio winced, and Gilbert whistled, shaking his head vigorously.

"_Nein nein nein_, Fanny, _bad _idea!" Francis glanced up incredulously, to find the albino looking back at him with something uncomfortably close to pity. "You may know all there is about love, but clearly you know nothing about war."

Antonio quickly nodded in agreement. "_Amigo_, just think of what Arthur's reaction would be if you just marched over there and punched Alfred." He grimaced. "He'd come closer to murdering you than he did last Thursday."

Elizaveta nodded, a rather unsettlingly devious grin creeping to the corners of her lips. "Attacking Alfred isn't going to solve anything; it'll probably just make it worse. But if you go after Arthur instead..."

Francis eyed her warily. "What are you saying, Lizbet?"

Elizaveta stiffened.

Francis smirked. "_Quoi_? It's what Gil calls you," he shrugged.

For the sake of all things wonderful and gay, Elizaveta didn't bash him over the head with her frying pan, forcing herself to let it go _just this once_, and continuing on with her plan.

Francis was already beginning to put together the pieces.

"If you... _distract _Arthur, and make him feel good enough, he's not going to even _want _to resist." The smirk on her face was filled with nearly enough to absolute, completely _perverted _evil to make Francis lean away slightly.

Three sets of eyes watched him eagerly, and he smirked right back at Elizaveta.

"That I can do," he murmured with a wink.

Gilbert threw back his head and cackled to the ceiling. "Well, then, that settles it," he hissed to Francis. "We're having an early dismissal, _ja_?"

Antonio watched with a dreamily thoughtful look on his face, silent for more than ten seconds—practically a record for his longest time spent without babbling something about tomatoes.

Finally, he spoke. "Francis, _amigo, _why didn't you just ask Arthur out before Alfred did?" he asked curiously.

Gil snickered, and Francis almost found himself blushing. He raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

"I actually had no idea whether he was gay before yesterday," he admitted, slightly sheepish, as Antonio just shook his head and Gil snorted, rolling his eyes.

"_Mein Gott_," he scoffed, cackling under his breath. "Even _I_ could tell he's as straight as a fucking rainbow. Really, Fanny?"

In spite of himself, Francis chuckled, rising from the seat and blowing both his friends a kiss and a wink. Tonio grinned, blowing him a joking kiss in return and starting at a screech of '_don't fucking kiss him, you stupid tomato bastard!_'

Elizaveta had wandered off long ago and was giggling about something again with Katyusha. Gil just grinned and flipped him off.

An evil plan earlier, Francis would have been absolutely blind with rage at seeing Alfred with Arthur comfortably straddling his lap, the two of them leaning in for a kiss...

One kiss.

Two.

With the pressure of icy-cold hatred building in his stomach, Francis was in no hurry. Let Alfred think he'd won.

If it hadn't been Alfred Fucking Jones whom Arthur was making out with, it actually would've been hot—heads tilting for a better angle, eyelids fluttering shut, soft smacks of kisses and breathing quickening through their noses. Francis tensed, seeing Alfred's hand on Arthur's thigh, sliding upward from his knee, rubbing his skin through those _fucking tight skinny jeans—_

A tiny, stifled moan from Arthur, and Francis's hands balled into fists.

_No. No. Non. Non, non, non, non—_

Another moan. Mr. Dinwiddy was striding up the aisle from his desk, and Francis stood aside to let him pass, earning himself a suspicious glance as the teacher edged uncomfortably around Alfred and Arthur's snogging session, heating up more every second. Alfred's hand moved higher still, brushing the backs of his fingers softly over Arthur's groin—

_Not yet. A few moments longer—_

Mr. Dinwiddy scribbled something at the end of one of the notes, whiteboard marker squeaking obnoxiously. Arthur sighed softly, and Francis forced away the surge of heat at the sound. "Ng, Fr—"

Arthur stopped himself before he said anymore.

But Francis had already realized what had almost slipped out of his mouth.

In a single move, he snatched Arthur from Alfred's lap, slammed him against the whiteboard, and smashed their mouths together.

Arthur yelped in surprise, struggling against him, but Francis had his wrists pinned above his head and his tongue in his mouth, running over the back of his teeth, sweet and wet and _hot. _Arthur tried to resist, feeling the frog's free hand sliding down to his ass, squeezing it through his jeans, thumb rubbing those hot circles that drove him insane and bringing all the heat rushing back—Francis tilted his head, deepening the kiss, groaning softly and nipping his lip playfully.

"You little tease," he breathed to Arthur, hot breath ghosting over his face, and he hissed, forcing back a moan.

"You're one to talk, frog," he hissed, biting his lip as he felt Francis's hand sliding over his ass, rubbing him teasingly, making his squeeze his eyes shut. Arthur was melting, heat rushing downward, left flushed and panting against the whiteboard as Francis broke away to lick a trail along his jaw, marking his neck with searing kisses...

Oh,_ fuck. Fuck_, he'd dreamed of this...

Abandoning all pride, Arthur finally let his head fall back and moaned.

Mr. Dinwiddy's marker had screeched to a halt the second Francis slammed Arthur against the board, and now he glared at them incredulously for a moment more before letting his forehead fall against it in defeat.

"I fucking hate this class," he sighed in exasperation, running a hand through his hair and throwing down the Expo marker. "Do I need to get you two relationship counseling?" he demanded, turning indignantly to Francis and Arthur, hands on hips.

Francis only pulled away long enough to shoot the teacher a grin. "_Non_, I think I've got it from here," he said breathlessly, before turning back to the panting Arthur and locking their mouths together once again. Mr. Dinwiddy slapped a hand to his forehead and turned away.

"That's it," he announced. "Everyone, I suggest you get the fuck out before these two shag in front of us."

With that, he walked out.

Cheers, applause, and piercing screeches of unknown cause could be heard all throughout the school, as Mr. Dinwiddy's last-period History class was let out early for the day for reasons no one really dared ask about, and students haphazardly shoved each other out the door, some of the boys making gagging noises, others just laughing about the fact they got an early dismissal but no one else would, and most of the girls giggling hysterically, squealing and running for the tissue box, or ducking their heads in embarrassment and running from the room as fast as they possibly could. Kiku Honda was blushing madly as he whispered a hurried conversation with Elizaveta, before the two of them started for the door—but halfway there, Elizaveta stopped dead in her tracks and glowered death at a certain American who was creeping up behind Francis, clearly meaning to yank him away from Arthur.

Everyone froze at the ringing _wham _of frying pan meeting skull, and Francis turned just in time to see a yelping Alfred being thrown out the door into the hall, Elizaveta flying after him, screaming at the top of her lungs.

"THEY WERE _MEANT_ _TO BE TOGETHER_, YOU _IGNORANT BUCKET OF LUKEWARM COW PISS!_"

Francis chuckled against Arthur's mouth.

He somehow doubted Alfred would be showing up at the dance tonight.

With a cheeky wave from Gil and a knowing wink from Antonio, the lights flicked off, the door swung closed, and the two of them were alone. Arthur was panting lightly as Francis broke the kiss, drawing back slowly, blue eyes flickering open.

He chuckled breathlessly, wrists still pinned to the board with bruising force. "You'd better be taking me to that bloody dance, after a kiss like _that_," he murmured.

Francis laughed, grip on his wrists loosening, hand sliding down to join the other on his ass, giving it a squeeze and making him squirm.

"I'll be doing more than that," he breathed, leaning in for another kiss, feeling Arthur's arms sliding around his neck, the Brit's smirk against his mouth, smirking back and giving his lower lip a sharp nip. Arthur moaned, probing Francis's lips with his tongue, pulling the ribbon from his silky hair and tossing it to the floor. He twined his fingers into those thick waves, pulling Francis closer. The frog chuckled, and Arthur tugged his hair warningly. Every bit of his irritation evaporated as Francis pulled away to trail scalding kisses over his jaw and nip at his earlobe.

Hands dipping teasingly beneath Arthur's shirt; Francis smirked to feel him shiver, tracing slow, tantalizing patterns on his stomach and slowly moving upward, rubbing over creamy skin, finally reaching one of Arthur's nubs and flicking his thumb over it teasingly. Arthur gasped, biting his lip. Francis's smirk widened, rubbing Arthur's ass with one hand and pinching his nipple with the other, and he held back a groan of satisfaction to see the Brit stifle another gasp and glare at him.

"'M not a fucking girl," Arthur muttered resentfully, but Francis just chuckled, tugging his shirt off slowly and feeling him shiver as he was pressed back between the smooth coolness of the board and the heat of Francis's body. The Frenchman kissed him again, hot tongues sliding, breaths quickening, Arthur moaning as he felt Francis grind against him, drawing it out, moving so slowly it made him want to scream.

Francis broke away from his mouth to kiss down over his chest, swirling his tongue around one pink nub and smirking up at Arthur as he gasped again, fisting his hair. Green eyes were already beginning to glaze; Arthur's growl turned into a low moan as he pulled away, leaving his nipple red and abused, glistening with saliva. Francis hummed, kissing over to his other nub, gently taking it between his teeth and teasing it with his tongue. Arthur gasped, arching, fingers tightening even further in Francis's hair.

Francis groaned, feeling Arthur shudder beneath him, hips giving an involuntary thrust against his chest and Arthur moaning at the feeling. Arthur tugged at his hair again, making him look up, before he leaned down to yank Francis into a messy kiss.

"Ngh, Francis—" Arthur bit back another groan, feeling Francis rub at his nipples, before his fingers were trailing lower, taking hold of his hips, heat building, as he rutted against Arthur mercilessly, kneading his ass through his jeans. Arthur could barely breathe through frenzied kisses, moaning into Francis's mouth, fighting with his tongue, blindly reaching for the Frenchman's buttons and struggling to undo them with kiss-clumsy fingers.

Francis chuckled, working at Arthur's belt, groaning as the Brit broke the sloppy kiss to suck at his neck, nipping hard, trailing down to his chest and biting at his collarbone. The second his final button had come undone his shirt was being ripped off and thrown to the floor, and Arthur was grinding against him, pulling them closer, his sticky, hard nipples leaving cool trails on Francis's chest. The Frenchman groaned, yanking his studded belt away and undoing his zipper, grinding their hips together roughly and relishing the desperate moan and the arch of his back.

"You want this," Francis breathed, chuckling lowly in Arthur's ear and sending a shiver down his back. "You want this even more than I do, _cher_..."

Arthur moaned, feeling Francis yank his jeans down to his knees and shove them to the floor. "S-shut up, frog," he muttered, inhaling sharply as Francis's hands found his ass again, rubbing him through his boxers with hot hands.

Francis smirked, feeling Arthur's gasp, rutting against him hard and slow, reveling in the whimper as he felt Arthur buck. "You're such a tease," he whispered. Arthur growled. "Do you have a clue what it's like to see your ass in those jeans, sitting in Alfred's lap, rubbing against his thighs?"

Arthur smirked. "You make it sound like my ass is the only part of me," he shot back, working on Francis's jeans, undoing the button and tearing open the zipper. Francis pulled Arthur in for another heated kiss, teasing the waistband of his Union Jack boxers, before finally sliding them off and kicking them to the side as Arthur stepped eagerly out of them.

Francis smirked at the shudder Arthur gave as he parted his cheeks slowly with one hand, pressing three of the other's fingers insistently against his lips. "Suck," he murmured, and Arthur glared at him slightly as he took the fingers into his mouth, only to have his glare crack as Francis massaged his balls. Arthur groaned, sucking at his fingers and letting his head fall back against the board. More grinding—Francis's jeans were scratchy against Arthur's bare skin, but he bucked against him anyway, desperate for friction. His face was flushed, chapped lips kiss-bruised, tongue swirling around Francis's fingers and making him groan. Francis squeezed his ass, finally retracting his fingers, watching Arthur wipe the trail of saliva on his chin with a slight blush on his face.

The second the first hot, slicked finger pushed past Arthur's entrance, he bit his lip, letting his eyes fall closed and squirming slightly at the discomfort of being penetrated. He could hear the rustle of clothing; Francis's jeans and boxers fell to the floor. He moaned softly, wrapping his arms around Francis's shoulders, grimacing slightly at the burn as another finger slipped inside beside the first, and Francis left a trail of gentle, distracting kisses over his collarbone, murmuring soft French nonsense against his skin.

Arthur squirmed again at the stretch of third finger, still desperately hard, feeling Francis's mouth at his neck and smelling his scent and tasting the ghost of him that lingered in his mouth. He was like a natural aphrodisiac—an embodiment of the god of sex. Arthur was ripped from his thoughts as Francis crooked his probing fingers, pushing them back in at just the right angle, and slamming into a spot that sent shockwaves of pleasure searing through his body.

"_Mhn! F-Francis—!_"

Francis smirked, watching Arthur throw his head back, writhing against the whiteboard, face flushed and skin shining with sweat.

"Guh, m-more!" Arthur demanded, quivering, and bit his lip, moaning loudly as Francis complied, pushing his fingers in and out, pressing against his prostate and making him moan with every thrust. His hands clenched on Francis's shoulders, chest heaving with gasps, losing himself in the pleasure as he let his eyes slide shut. He was pushing himself down to meet the fingers as the pace slowly grew faster, feeling Francis's tongue swiping over his nipples, a thumb teasing the tip of his erection, hips rutting against him as he bucked against Francis's fingers. He was writhing against the board, tightness beginning to grow in his stomach, leaning forward to pull Francis into a frenzied, heated kiss.

The second Francis pulled back his fingers, Arthur's eyes snapped open, and he took a moment to bring himself back to his senses, shaking and panting, feeling the beginnings of his orgasm slipping away. Francis slowed the kiss and gently broke it, pulling back to slide both of his hands beneath Arthur's knees, smiling softly when Arthur hitched them higher around his waist. The Brit blushed, reaching up shakily to brush his hair from his face, and eagerly kissed back as Francis leaned down to shove his tongue into his mouth.

Arthur's breath hitched as the tip Francis's length, hot and throbbing, came to rest against his entrance, feeling Francis kiss him deeply, drawing a soft moan from the back of his throat. Arthur choked on the air in his lungs as Francis slowly began to push inside, bigger and thicker than his fingers had been, opening his eyes to see him biting his lip in pleasure, eyes shut, shoulders tensing, fingers tightening down on his hips. Arthur moaned, sliding his arms around his neck and pulling Francis closer, gasping for breath around the choking pleasure of thick length buried inside him. Francis groaned softly, burying his face in Arthur's neck, nipping at his skin.

Arthur gasped as he felt Francis begin to move, pulling out almost to the tip, leaving him feeling empty until he slammed back inside, bringing a wave of pain and pleasure crashing over him. He whimpered slightly, nails scraping over Francis's shoulders, leaving hot red marks in their wake.

Biting his lip to keep the noises inside, Arthur let his head fall back as slowly, the burning pain began to give way to pleasure, Francis's thrusts building to a steady pace, pushing deeper, moving faster, making Arthur quiver as he brushed his prostate once, twice, and then—

"_Fuck!_ Fuck, _aahn—!_"

Arthur gasped as Francis slammed into his prostate, biting back a cry, eyes squeezing shut as Francis chuckled, leaning in to kiss him again.

"Don't hold it in, _belle_," he whispered, breath hot against Arthur's mouth, making him whimper. "They've all gone home until the dance tonight."

With the next onslaught to his sweet spot, Arthur fisted Francis's hair, writhing in pleasure, crying out to the ceiling.

"R-right _there_, _shit_—don't stop, _harder_, _ngh—_"

His hips were bucking to meet Francis's thrusts, hands tangled in his hair, desperate moans and cries tearing themselves from his throat. Francis leaned down to capture his lips in a kiss, hot tongues sliding and thrusting, Arthur's mouth falling slack when Francis pulled away, his face flushed and messy hair sticking to his forehead. Francis groaned at the sight, feeling the nails dragging over his shoulders, the hot skin against his.

He was fucking Arthur Kirkland.

_He was finally fucking Arthur Kirkland._

Arthur moaned unabashedly as Francis slammed into him harder and harder, reveling in the smack of skin on skin, the soft grunts the Frenchman let slip with every thrust, the bruising hands on his hips and the slickness of the whiteboard behind him. He could feel himself panting raggedly, breaths quickening, throwing his head back and moaning to the ceiling.

"F-faster, Francis, more, _oh God_—_I'm almost—_"

Arthur cried out as Francis coiled against him, pounding faster still, making Arthur twitch with the heat searing through him, the tightening in his stomach and the smack of skin on skin. Arthur could feel him tensing, moving hard against him, and he groaned, throwing his head back, so close yes _so close—_

Nearly coming, Arthur threw his head back, it was_ so hot and so fucking tight—_

_ Aahn fuck one more thrust—_

Arthur almost choked on the air in his lungs as he finally exploded, screaming Francis's name to the ceiling, bucking and twitching in Francis's hold as he arched his back and coated their stomachs in sticky white cum. Francis groaned, watching Arthur cry out as he didn't slow his pace, pounding his sensitive nerves, making him twitch even more and writhe in ecstasy. He tightened his legs around Frenchman's sweat-slicked body just in time to feel hot cum spurt inside of him, hearing Francis's groan and watching him brace himself against the wall with one shaking arm, eyelids flickering, hair falling into his face, lips parted with ragged pants.

Francis slowed, riding it out, finally coming to a halt and opening his eyes to see Arthur looking back at him. The Brit let out a shaky sigh, leaning forward to slide his arms around Francis's shoulders, kissing softly at his jaw and rubbing his hands over creamy, nail-marked skin, burying his face his face in his neck with a soft moan.

"Mmn, Francis," he breathed, curling closer around him with a soft sound of pleasure.

Francis smiled, nipping Arthur's neck softly, gently unhooking his legs from around his waist and lowering him to the cold tile floor. It was impossible to ignore the quiet noise of displeasure falling from kiss-bruised lips as his length slipped out and Arthur pouted.

Arthur looked down to find his footing, stumbling slightly and blushing bright red at the sight of the sticky mess on his stomach.

Francis just chuckled, shaking his head and leaning over to grab a tissue from Mr. Dinwiddy's desk, gently wiping away his cum and handing him his shirt. Arthur laughed and took it from him, shakily pulling it on, having to sit down at one of the desks to pull on his jeans and boxers. Francis chuckled, making a teasing remark about how every girl would be scrambling to sit at that desk during last hour tomorrow. Arthur smacked his shoulder halfheartedly, still a bit wobbly.

"If I'm limping at the dance tonight, it's your fault," he muttered, once they were both fully dressed again, and Francis just laughed, smothering his face in kisses and laughing harder as he protested and tried to swat him away.

The two of them grabbed their backpacks, starting out of the room, and Arthur tried to hide his goofy grin as Francis reached over to entwine their fingers.

"_Je t'aime_, _rosbif._" He added the nickname affectionately, and Arthur blushed, turning to come up with a retort as the door swung shut behind the two of them with a soft _click_.

Neither Francis nor Arthur noticed the tiny red light of Elizaveta Hedevary's camera, set up and recording on the edge of Mr. Dinwiddy's desk.

* * *

**A/N: Bad Touch Trio and FrUK smut on camera ALL IN ONE CHAPTER! OHMYGOD. /faints dead away**

**Well, that about sums it up, folks! I think I'm done with this one. And as much as I don't like the smut, am I the only one who sees how much more relaxed the two of them seem once they've fucked and all is right with the world? *wink-wink***


End file.
